Today, we celebrate the women who grunted us into being, nourished us to maturity, soothed our wounds, comforted us in sickness, confiscated our drugs, embarrassed us in front of friends, and unintentionally promoted the array of neuroses from which only the sweet touch of death will release us.
Once a year, in recognition of their grace and beauty and martyrdom, we take time out to say, “Thanks, Mom, for squandering what could have been the most creative and productive years of your lives on us, your sniveling, unworthy children. I can’t believe we treated you so poorly when we were teenagers. Here’s a plate — the buffet table is over there. Go nuts.”
As always with holidays and birthdays, I’m late with cards and gifts and such, but I notice on my calendar that Fête des Mères is not celebrated in France
and Quebec until May 27 le 3 juin, so I figure I’m OK for a couple of weeks. Thank goodness for the dilatory French and their belated toasts to motherhood.